A desperate hour
by KendraPendragon
Summary: Victorian AU. Molly is about to be married of to a man she dreads. In her despair she seeks out the one man who she thinks can help her...One-shot which could turn into a story one day.


A/N: Hi all. This little thing has been nagging me for weeks and today I was just so fed up with it that I wrote the thing. Personally I think this has a lot of potential, even though I think there are some fics like this out there. Still, I like it. Maybe I will continue it one day, but for now I'll post it as a One-shot. But I'm thinking of a smuttier version, maybe I'll write this one shortly. ;)  
Comments of any sort would be appreciated as always. Thanks in advance.

Disclaimer: It should be clear by now, but what the heck: Don't. Own. Da thing!

„Mr. Holmes. Could I talk to you for a minute?"

Sherlock frowned as he turned to look at the woman who had spoken to his back. She rarely approached him so bluntly in public, especially at a public ball which his brother had forced him to go to this afternoon.

Her big brown eyes, the rosy flush on her cheeks and her wringing hands distracted him from the complementing white muslin dress she was wearing tonight, as well as the pretty updo of her hair decorated with two white ribbons.

Had the tone not given it away already, the eyes he had come to know so well would have given away her distress. Before he could make a remark though, she had taken his hand and was leading him out of the salon, through the crowded ballroom and onto the terrace of their host, a man he loathed beyond compare. But he mustn't dwell on that hound now.

More pressing matter were to deal with, obviously.

"I don't think your mother would consider it proper to lead a man by hand through a room filled with London's high society, let alone me."

"I don't have time for this now, Sherlock", she interjected his mock.

Sherlock frowned yet again.

"What is wrong?"

Her chest was heaving and she shifted from one leg to the other. Then her eyes rose to his and a jolt of worry shot through his system.

"My mother wants to marry me off."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, worry instantly replaced with boredom. How many times did they have to talk about this, he thought sourly.

"Yes, Molly, she did for the past three years. It's all what's on her mind since your father passed."

Normally, she would have gasped at his cruel words, for he knew exactly that her beloved father was a topic she did not like to discuss, not even with him, her best friend.

That's what she had called him several times throughout their six year acquaintance. They had met in his garden one night, not unlike the one they were facing now, similar in size but with a lot more flowers and a green house. She had snuck away from the ball his mother had held to look at the many exotic flowers his brother kept in there; he had been sitting on the bench under the pavilion, smoking. He had heard her excited giggle as she opened the door and slipped inside and he had been intrigued. He had followed and had been the bastard he always was, condescending and mocking. Instead of being appalled and running away like a modest woman would have done, she had laughed.

Well, and the rest was history, as they say.

Now here they were, six years later, after countless days of riding out together, hours spent on lying in the grass talking; of him watching her draw flowers and insects, or her drawing him to his great displeasure; after discovering their shared interest in anatomy; him bribing a night-watchman to get them access to the pathology department of St. Bart's hospital and taking her with him to look and inspect corpses (just like daVinci had, Molly had pointed out excitedly); after giving her a copy of daVinci's research on the human body and comparing notes on it, they were standing on the dark terrace of a mansion, the only light coming from the big windows a few feet away, and she was looking at him with panic in her warm eyes.

"No, you don't understand. She wants me to marry him, Sherlock. _Him_!"

He stiffened.

"What?"

"Of all people! I can't, Sherlock! I can't marry that man. He frightens me. Not only because of what you told me. There is something in his eyes...a fire so dark and cold I shiver whenever they settle on me. He knows, Sherlock! He knows of her plans...I think he...I think he wants me..."

Molly was panting now, in fact she seemed to be on the edge of being hysteric.

"Calm down, Molly", he ordered but she slung her arms around herself.

"I feel like he's watching me right now, from the shadows, his devil eyes piercing through my skin..."

She was pacing up and down, breathing hard.

In the end, Sherlock grabbed her and spun her around to face him, his hands on her bare shoulders, the warm skin shivering under the touch of his cold hands.

"Enough", he said calmly and held her gaze with his. "Breathe."

So she did. In and out. In and out. Never looking away. Focusing on him. Only on him. After the panic had left her eyes, she nodded and he let go of her.

Both of them realized how close they were.

Sherlock took a step back, glancing over her shoulder to check if they were still the only guests on the terrace.

Even though he didn't care about his reputation, he had no intention of ruining hers. It was bad enough that they spent so much time together. They were a topic of gossip already, he didn't mean to make it worse.

"I can't marry him, Sherlock", Molly repeated soberly.

"Of course you can't. This is ridiculous. He's way too old for you and the rumours about the mysterious death of his wife should be enough to put off every ambitious mother. She can't possibly be serious."

"She told me. Just five minutes ago. He has approached her several times. He has sent her letters. She tried to hide them, but I recognized his handwriting."

"Maybe he is courting her", Sherlock suggested.

"Are you not listening? She _told_ me he wants to make me his wife!"

"Keep your voice down", Sherlock said angrily and pulled her further into the shadows. They were on the very edge of the terrace now, at least a little bit shielded by blooming wisteria clinging to the wall.

"Please, Sherlock, you have to help me."

They were close again and she took another step towards him.

"Do you want me to murder him?" he asked in jest, having no idea what he was supposed to do.

"Stop making jokes!" she hissed at him and looked behind her back, also making sure they were alone.

When she turned back to him, her eyes were nothing but serious.

A knot formed in his throat.

He could see the tears swimming in her brown pools. There was also fear. And feelings he never dared to analyse. But in a few seconds, he would have to

In the second before she opened her mouth, Sherlock realized that the fine bond of friendship they had woven would be torn and what was hiding underneath – and what he had declined to acknowledge – would be brought to the surface.

"Marry me."

Sherlock could hear the bond rip in his ears.

He blinked.

She seized his surprise to come even closer and place her hands on his chest.

Her little hands burned through his layers of brocade and fine cotton.

"It's the easiest solution, Sherlock. Please, just think about it for a moment. It would be perfect. We wouldn't have to hide anymore. We could buy a house, we could install a laboratory. We could conduct experiments. We could study. We work so well together."

His head was spinning.

Her words filled his heads with all sorts of images, hidden thoughts that had passed his mind before but which he had stored away in the furthest corners of his mind.

It could be perfect, yes. Having someone who was just as intrigued by nature's secrets as he was, having a competent assistant at his side in his field studies. A laboratory in his home. He could already picture it. Had pictured it before. Lately, he had seen her there, too. But he had always locked her out. And he had to do so now.

Sherlock Holmes had never wanted to marry. And he didn't want to, now.

So he shook his head. The hands on his chest clawed into his tailcoat.

"I won't marry you, Molly."

"Sherlock, please!"

"No."

He uncurled her fingers and gently pushed her away, not looking into her eyes.

"Why not? What is so horrible about the thought of marrying me?"

"It has nothing to do with you."

"You like me. I know you do."

"It has nothing to do with you", he repeated, looking away.

"Then what is it?"

"It's the construct in itself. I have no interest in marriage, having to provide for a wife, keep her amused. As you might know, I'm not what one would consider charming."

She snorted at that.

"No, you're certainly not. But I know all about you already. I know your tempers, seen you at your best as well at your worst. You wouldn't have to bother with featherbrained chit chat. I have no patience for that, either."

He glanced at her for only a second, a smile playing around his lips for just as long.

No, she definitely hadn't. He had observed her at balls, seen her in standing in a group of young women, listening to their banter, lazily fanning, her eyes travelling out of boredom, so often finding him in the crowd, a smile spreading across her face followed by a roll of her eyes. A gesture she had copied from him.

"Furthermore, you know your parents won't have patience with you for much longer. They could barely cope with all the rumours about Mycroft and were so pleased when he finally settled for Anthea last month. Do you want to let them go through this hell again? You know the stress is not good for your mother's heart."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Molly knew fully well that his mother's health was something he didn't like to discuss at all.

"They'll get over it. Never understood what the fuss about marriage is, anyway. What's so problematic if one prefers to remain unmarried?"

"It's the proper thing to do."

"What does that even mean?" he snapped.

"I don't know. Do you think I like the society we live in? While you simply remain a hard-to-tame-bachelor, with every passing season without me being married off I turn into a horrid shrew, some sort of pathetic outcast one's existence has to tolerate. My sole being is about to get me a husband, give him a bunch of children and sit around all day, rotting away in a house while he has a life. Do you think this is something I aspire to be?"

He turned to look at her. She was angry now. A familiar fire burned in her eyes, fuelled by intelligence, pride and frustration.

"I want a life of my own! I want to be free form all of this. If I could choose I would stay unmarried, too, and continue my studies about nature. There is so much I want to learn about the human body. I wish nothing more but to study medicine. But I'm a woman, Sherlock! Due to my gender I am to remain stupid and small! But I refuse that! That's why I'm not married yet. Because I haven't found a man who wasn't threatened by my intelligence and my ideas. Don't pretend to not know what they talk about me in the card rooms. I'm considered wild, uncivilized, ridiculous and even crazy for wanting more out of life than tend to my husband's every need. I hate every man who looks down on me. And they all do. Except you."

Sherlock's heart clenched.

"That's why I'm here. I can't escape the chains they'll put me in without bringing shame to my family. And I would never do such a thing. But I want to be the one who chooses the chains."

The strength left her words and she had to bite back tears. For a while she turned and held her head into the soft breeze passing over the dark terrace.

The silence gave them both the possibility to clear their heads a little.

A minute passed without them talking, just standing side by side, the soft sounds of strings in the air.

"I can't marry him, Sherlock", Molly said calmly now. "He will suck the life out of me. I'd rather die than be his wife."

Sherlock closed his eyes as his heart vehemently protested at those words.

Funny thing. He could not imagine a life without her. In these past years she had become such a constant in his life. If she was gone, married off to another man...he would notice her absence.

"I know", he answered tonelessly.

He knew Molly. At first sight she was gentle, silent, plain even. But on the inside there was intelligence, passion and curiosity; a longing for adventure that was comparable to his own. Molly Hooper was a unique, strong-minded woman. A rough diamond. She could be brilliant. It would be an unforgivable crime to let her waste away in a dull marriage.

"Maybe I could find a suitable husband for you. How much time do you have?"

"None. Mother will accept him. You were my only hope."

She hugged herself.

"Why can't you just do this for me?"

Both were facing the garden. Another moment of silence passed between them.

"Because I would be even more poisonous for you than he could ever be."

Their eyes met.  
She frowned.

"How can you say that? He's a monster."

"And I am a demon."

She blushed.

Once, it was only once she had called him that. Their most intimate moment. When he had overdid the opium use for several days until she had found him in a tavern by the docks, accompanied by two of his brother's brutes. She had slapped him and cried and slapped him again, cursing him with words no proper young lady should know. 'Demon' had been just one of them, but somehow it had been the one that had slipped through the milky fog inside his head; it had stayed with him.

Now he heard her say it every time he saw an opium pipe.

"I could destroy you, Molly. We both know that."

She hesitated only a second.

"You wouldn't."

"I'm not a good man, Molly."

"You could be."

"I don't want to be."

Again, there were tears lurking in the corners of her eyes.

"I don't care", she whispered, almost choking on her words.

His chest felt tight.

"Yes, you do. You care too much already."

She faced the garden, rubbing her bare arms.

"There's nothing wrong with caring. You would be dead if no one cared about you."

"And how many people die because they do?"

Molly's eyes were on him for a long while.

"I'd rather marry someone I care about than someone I fear."

"In this case, the outcome would be the same."

"No, it wouldn't!" she protested loudly, forgetting that the door to the ballroom was only ajar.

"Yes, it would."

"God, I hate it when you're acting like this! You're talking and talking, yet you don't deliver one reasonable argument to make your point!"

"I am trying to be gentle with you", he snapped back.

"Well, you're just being insufferable!"

Anger flared inside him.

"Fine! You want to know why marrying me would be even worse than marrying him?"

"Yes!"

"Because you love me!"

She looked like he had slapped her. In a way, he had. Calling her out on it was beyond decency.

He would have understood if she had fled. Or slapped him.

Damn her for never doing what he expected.

"Yes, yes, I do."

Now it was his turn to look shocked. Two pairs of cheeks were flaming red now.

He cleared his throat.

"You see that I'm right, then."

"No."

"Molly, please."

"So I love you. How could this be a disadvantage?"

"You'd be vulnerable."

"I have been _vulnerable_, as you call it, for a very long time now, and I'm doing fine. I know you don't love me. But maybe over time-"

"No", he hurried to interject. "This will never change."

Another slap in the face.

Molly handled it with nothing but grace, only a little flinch and a flutter of her eyelids.

"Nevertheless."

"Why can't you see reason?" he asked, getting frustrated by the whole subject.

How he damned his brother for making him come tonight. Only because of him he would lose the closest friend he had ever had.

Molly taking a step closer caught his attention. Once again her eyes were big and warm...and sad.

"I understand your concern, but you know nothing about my heart, Sherlock Holmes."

For a second he wanted to protest; he wanted to tell her that he saw her more clearly than anyone else.

"I'd rather be married to a man I love than spend my life without any love at all. If I can't be loved, at least I want to love. And I will love you, Sherlock. I will love you with all my heart. I will hurt, yes, and I will cry. I will suffer every second for the rest of my life."

Molly paused, swallowing hard.

"But I'd rather suffer from a broken heart than from a cruel man."

How brave she was, he couldn't help to think as he watched her fight tears. Never once did her eyes flee; she held his gaze. So open, she was. Always had been. Never had held anything back from him. Of course she knew about his skill to read people. As well as she knew how he struggled with understanding emotion. Was that why she let him see everything? So he could study human emotions?

"So what would you expect from me?" he asked.

"Not more than you've already given me: Respect. Companionship. Allowing me to study. Letting me be the woman I can be. Treating me as an equal. I think that is more than most women of our age have."

He shook his head. He couldn't consider it. She said these things now, but would she say the same in ten years?  
Hell's teeth, even five years? Would she still be fine with being married to him without him being a husband to her?

...Did she even realize that it would be like this?

Trying to remain from blushing further, he cleared his throat.

"What about children?"

"What about them?"

Molly Hooper chose the perfect moment to become daft.

"I wouldn't be a husband to you, Molly", he stated matter-of-factly.

They were long past the point of propriety.

The widening of her eyes told him that she understood.

"Oh."

Even in the semi-dark he could make out her flaming cheeks.

Hopefully, this topic would be over now. Molly had always wanted children. Motherhood was the most conservative thing she wanted out of life.

Minutes passed without her speaking or looking at him. She was facing the garden again, staring into the blackness, contemplating.

She must come to her senses now, Sherlock thought. There would be another way. They would think of something that would save her from becoming Lady Worthon.

"Fine."

Sherlock closed his eyes as all hope left him.

"Molly, this is ridiculous!"

"Enough."

Her voice was soft, yet it made him stop.

Now he saw how exhausted she looked, her face pale and her eyes drained from emotion.

This was what he was afraid of, that in a few years her eyes would be dead for good.

"I've accepted all your terms, Mr. Holmes. Can you accept mine?"

Sherlock let out a frustrated noise.

"Just give me time! I will think of something! I can talk to Mycroft, he'll know someone-"

"Mycroft does business with Magnussen, do you really think he would do something to offend him?"

Sherlock wanted to rip his hair out. His heart was pounding, his mind was racing.

Why couldn't he think of something! Anything to prevent this from happening!

"Molly?"

A gasp.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

Her mother.

"Molly, what are you doing? This is highly improper! And you Mister Holmes, how often do I have to tell you to leave my child alone?! Come inside, Molly, Lord Worthon wants you."

Molly looked up at him, her brows knitted and her eyes wet.

In that moment, Sherlock could see everything: Magnussen would force her into marriage, rape her and play his sick little games with her until there was nothing left of her but an empty shell. He remembered the ghostly face and the dead eyes of the former Lady Worthon.

Was this what he wanted for her? For his friend? His companion?

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hooper", Sherlock interrupted Molly's mother loudly, causing her and Molly to flinch. He never took his eyes off of his friend while he spoke.

"I know it was improper to steal her away for so long, but it appeared to be as good a moment as any to propose to your daughter."

"Yes, indeed it – what?!" Mrs. Hooper gasped.

"I've accepted, mother", Molly informed him, not looking at her either.

"I-I-I don't believe this", they heard her stutter.

Sherlock watched how a tear rolled over Molly's pale cheek.

If it was out of relief or unhappiness, he didn't know.

Well, there would be plenty of time to ask her.

In a few weeks she would be Lady Wokingham.

Mrs. Molly Holmes.


End file.
